


Message Undeliverable

by wolfgirl720



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Bunker Fic, Declarations Of Love, Feels, Gen, M/M, MCD (off-screen), Supportive Sam, shit-tons of angst, the first line is a T&S reference for Christ sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgirl720/pseuds/wolfgirl720
Summary: Dean realizes, a little too late, what Cas means to him. Sammy's just trying to keep them both in one piece.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/234503368-supernatural-one-shots-message-undeliverable  
> I was feeling sad and angsty, and this came out. Sorry for any feels.

***Sam's POV***

Cas died on a Thursday.

At least, we think he did. We didn't find a body, but then again, the whole building exploded. We had crossed our fingers that he somehow had enough borrowed grace to have just teleported or something, but when we didn't hear from him again...

That was three weeks ago. And we've tried every avenue and every lead and every contact we can think of, and gotten jack crap. It's weird; there have been times before when we thought he was dead, and even some times before when he actually _was_ dead, but something about this time feels more real, more final, than before. Like we've used up all our luck and all our second (more like fiftieth) chances, and this time we just have to live with the consequences.

Dean's losing it. Like, really, seriously losing it. I heard him praying a few nights ago, after he thought I'd gone to bed. Of course, that had been one of the first things we'd tried, and clearly Cas hadn't answered, but Dean was through half a bottle of cheap whiskey and I don't think he could help it. He's not the type to give up so easily, and Cas... well, Cas means a lot to him. To both of us, really, but it's become increasingly apparent over the last couple years that the "profound bond" thing wasn't bullshit.

Last night was worse. After he spent most of the day just lying around, I finally got him to come sit on the couch where I could at least watch him. He grabbed a new bottle out of the liquor cabinet on his way to the couch, then sat down and stared at the wall. I tried to talk to him a little, but the look in his eyes told me I wasn't going to get anywhere, so I just sat there with my research and pretended not to notice my brother slowly falling apart a few feet away from me. It started with a tear or two, and I thought,  _good, let it out,_  but the tears kept coming. I moved to sit next to him, not that he acknowledged it; with time and alcohol, he composed himself and his expression returned to an exhausted neutral, but then he tried to pray again. His words quickly devolved into unintelligible murmuring, tears and snot running down his face unopposed once he gave up rubbing them away with his sleeve. His lips kept moving for over an hour, as if he was using the prayer to keep reality at bay, and his hand clenched the whiskey bottle so tightly I was sure it would shatter. The only syllable clear enough to make out was "Cas," over and over, even after Dean's eyelids closed and the bottle went slack in his grip.

I went to bed crying harder than I have since the last time Dean died, my own prayer a desperate echo of his, that somehow Cas was still alive and listening and could come save my brother one more time. I don't think anyone got the message.

 

I walk down the hall towards Dean's room after finding the couch empty. I can't help but feel a wave of apprehension, and I need a deep breath before I peek around the doorway. Dean's fine though, physically anyway. He's passed out on the bed, but the fact that he bothered to change into pajama pants means he sobered up a little last night. I'm sure his liver thanks him for the break.

I walk over and fix the blanket around him, pulling it up to cover his chest. Even though he's asleep, I can tell his eyes are puffy from tears, but at least his face isn't creased with pain for the moment. I glance over at his bedside table, the one with the picture of him and mom, and I notice a piece of paper halfway shoved under the antique typewriter Dean keeps there. It's wrinkled in places where it looks like it got wet.

I look over at Dean again; he still hasn't stirred. Despite the dread crawling up from my stomach to settle in my chest, I unfold the page, take another steadying breath and start reading.  
  


 

_So... I don't normally do this. Like, at all. But you know that. I'm sorry for the way I forced it on you, skirting around the truth, pushing it down, hiding it away because I just can't deal. You didn't deserve that. You deserve so much better._

_So I'm finally going to say it, sort of... Not to you, because that's impossible now- but I would if I could. Believe me. And even though you're not here to listen, it needs to be said like it never was, like all the times it hung in the air but never coalesced into something real, something that could stroke your face and hold your hand and take away all the hurt. I'm not fooling myself anymore; I hurt you with my silence, probably more times than I know. I was just too damn selfish and scared and full of self-loathing to take that step, to bet it all on the impossible chance that you felt anything close to the same. So I kept my mouth shut and I cut us both a little deeper._

_I'm sick of being silent and sick of being alone. If only I would've pulled my head out of my ass a little sooner, I could have been saying this to you face to face, could have whispered it gently into your lips and felt the beat of your heart and I swear we could've fused into one._

_All the ways I've said it before, screaming it in my head but letting some lame excuse come out of my mouth, staring at you like you're a fucking miracle because you really, really are. You're worth so much more than my stupid pride; you deserved to be loved whether you returned the favor or not, but I couldn't manage it... I'm such a chickenshit. Hell, maybe the only reason I can say it now is because I know this message is undeliverable, because I'm not getting lost in the way you look at me and the way you make me feel and the way you make me better._

_I don't know where you are now, and that hurts. A lot. Now that I've finally fessed up and all I want to do is talk to you, like I always could've, but didn't. I want you here with me, hell, I need it. You're the best damn part of me by far, and there's nothing I can do to earn what you've done for me._

_I'm sorry. I love you. That's it._

_Dean_

 

I've been trying to blink back the waterworks since the first line, and by the last one I'm damn near bawling, my tears crashing to the page here and there like Dean's had when he wrote the thing. It's rambling, but more literate than I would've expected half-drunk Dean to be and strangely beautiful.

So there it is. Finally. I would say 'I knew it,' but that hurts too much; it's twisting the knife. I look back over at Dean again, although my vision is still blurry, and I can almost see it.

Dean cuddled up next to Cas on the couch, watching a stupid movie with me and laughing when Cas doesn't get the jokes. Cas buying Dean an entire apple pie, then reminding Dean it's his own fault his stomach hurts after he eats it all in one sitting. Cas riding shotgun in the Impala, holding Dean's hand and rambling about bees and not being nearly as embarrassed as Dean is when I make fun of their adorable sappiness from the back seat. Cas loving Dean, and Dean loving Cas, and this shitshow of a world being a little brighter as a result.

I take a deep breath and try to push the images away. I look down at the letter, unsure what to do with it. I know I should put it back, but I get the feeling Dean's going to burn it or something. I grab my phone and snap a picture before I put it back under the typewriter; it's not like I want to read it again, but it makes me feel better knowing that it exists, if that makes any sense at all.

I leave Dean's room and go make another pot of coffee. I'm gonna need it if I'm going to keep digging through boxes; there are dozens of rooms in the bunker that still have crap we need to sort through. I think I'm just keeping myself busy at this point, but there's always a chance we'll find what we need to bring Cas home. I can do this. One day at a time.

 

***Dean's POV***

I wake up to my brain trying to escape my skull through my eyeballs. I don't remember when I last had a hangover this bad, and _why the actual fuck_ didn't I turn that light off? I sit up in bed to reach for the lamp and my stomach rolls in time with the throbbing in my head. Luckily, I don't throw up all over myself.

When I open my eyes again, I see the paper next to the lamp, under the typewriter. Shit. I remember last night, how whiny and sappy and just plain fucking weak I got, and how of course I did it in front of Sammy. Because apparently it's not enough that I blubber like a damn toddler when I'm alone, I have to do it in front of people, all the while praying a desperate and absolutely pointless prayer to someone who can't hear it and can't come back.

I need to get out of this stupid bunker. I want to be a thousand miles away from anything that reminds me of- I mentally skip over the name (it fucking hurts and I don't have to if I don't want to, so bite me)- and distance always feels better if you're crossing it in Baby, classic rock blaring and triple digits on the speedometer.

I roll out of bed and find some jeans, only stumbling a little as I put them on- mental middle finger to the hangover. I grab a t-shirt but don't bother with a flannel; buttons seem a bit above my reading level at the moment. Almost as an afterthought, I snatch the paper off the table and shove it into my back pocket. I don't read it again; it's not like I don't know what it says, like the words don't come from the depths of my friggin' soul. I know exactly how I feel, every cell of me, and it aches.

I wander out to the kitchen, and the nearly full coffee pot is the best thing I've seen all day. I pour myself a cup and take a gulp right away; it's hot enough to melt Nazi faces like on _Raiders_ , but I swallow it anyway because I'm not a pansy. The burn in my throat actually helps a little to clear my head and quiet down the stupid angry pounding.

I finish my coffee, then I grab a pen and paper to leave Sam a note ("I went for a drive- don't worry, I'm sober and I'll be back soon. I'll call you if I stop somewhere") so he doesn't think I just took off. Freakin' mother hen.

When Baby hits asphalt ten minutes later, I crank up the radio to hear Zeppelin over the wind rushing through the open windows. The sky is a shade of blue that hits a little too close to home, but at least I can breathe out here. I step on the gas a little more, and the roar of the engine actually makes me smile. I can do this. One day at a time.


End file.
